


Blood and Fire

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Series: Blood and Fire [1]
Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Captivity, F/F, Foe Yay, Prompt Fic, Sibling Incest, Sister-Sister Relationship, Sisters, Stockholm Syndrome, Threesome - F/F/F, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:04:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Councilwoman Taraka takes Korra captive, she hands her over to Amon. (Rule 63!Amon, Rule 63!Tarrlok.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Fire

Korra’s first few days as a prisoner of the Equalists were oddly dream-like. She remembered being chi-blocked, but the different instances of it bled together, until she couldn’t recall who was responsible on which occasion. She had the impression that Amon’s lieutenant had been involved in the beginning, but she couldn’t be sure.

She _did_ remember hanging from Taraka’s box by her armband, and then Taraka herself, addressing the Equalists.

“Wait! It didn’t work.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded a deep, vaguely familiar voice. That angry man with the kali sticks and the moustaches?

“She’s—she’s in the air, somehow,” Taraka said. She was an Equalist? But what about the task force? And cracking down so much on non-benders? Spirits, Tenzin had _said_ she was making things worse, but nobody had thought—nobody had imagined that she was doing it on purpose! But why? She was a waterbender! “And she’s conscious.”

Korra froze, terrified. If Taraka was on their side—she had to escape, and she thought she could rock the chi-blockers off their feet once they opened the box, but what was she supposed to do with an Equalist bloodbender? How was that even a _thing?_

“How do we know?” he said, sounding irritated. Then he seemed to address someone else. “How can we even trust her? She’s a bender—”

A new voice interrupted him: the rich contralto that had haunted her nightmares.

“Yes. A bloodbender, to be more precise,” said Amon. Korra bit back a gasp; several Equalists didn’t quite manage it, if for a different reason. _My bending,_ she thought wildly, not even hearing the rest of Amon’s reply. _She’s going to take my bending—but she said she was saving me for last—then why—who’d know?—she can’t, I won’t let her—_

“Fine,” said the Lieutenant, “but how—”

“Councilwoman Taraka has served our cause longer than anyone else here,” Amon said patiently. “I will provide further details later. For now, you must trust that she _is_ an ally to the movement, and she is uniquely capable of determining the Avatar’s current state, and controlling her, until the time comes to remove her bending.” Korra shuddered. “Taraka. I dislike asking it of you, but—”

“It’s all right. I’ll take care of her,” said Taraka. She sounded either grim or unhappy or both. Korra couldn’t bring herself to care, much less after she opened the door to the box. Korra had barely rippled the floor before she felt herself seized, painfully, in Taraka’s bloodbending grip. Her eyes darted desperately around the room, trying to take in everything.

Taraka herself stood only a few feet away, hands in the stiff, claw-like bloodbending position. She looked decidedly ragged, her elegant robes still torn and stained from their fight, hair falling over her face. She was backed by what looked like a half-dozen Equalists; three or four more were picking themselves up off the ground. And in the back, a tall, lean woman in a mask and hood watched over it all.

There was nothing particularly menacing about Amon’s stance; in fact, her body was turned a little away, although Korra could feel the woman’s eyes on her. Suddenly Taraka, with her blue-on-blue robes and blue eyes and blue beads in the hair loops that had always reminded Korra of home, was the easier sight to bear. Korra glared as well as she could through the bloodbending.

“You—” she just managed to choke out— “ _traitor._ ”

“Mm,” said Taraka. “Amon, what do you want done with her?”

Out of the corner of her eyes, Korra just saw Amon nod at the Lieutenant. He came forward, kali sticks in hand, his resentful expression shifting to something like glee. _Sicko_ , she thought, fighting as hard as she could. Hadn’t Katara overpowered a bloodbender just by being more powerful? Korra should be able to—she had to be stronger than Taraka, right? She’d beaten her fair and square—okay, not with waterbending, but still—

Amon cleared her throat, pointedly. The Lieutenant sighed, lowering his sticks, then his hands jabbed out at Korra’s chi-points. It was the last thing she remembered.

Then there was that confused time, when she wasn’t altogether sure what had really happened and what she’d dreamed or imagined. Chi-blocking—yes, that had happened. She would have remembered if Amon had taken her bending for good, right? At the very least, wouldn’t there have been some kind of production made of it? Amon … theatrical, that way. It was just chi-blocking. Korra swallowed her instinctive panic. She was strong, she was the Avatar, she’d figure something out.

She had a vague memory, too, of a cramped cell, and raised voices—a man’s and a woman’s—but that was all. Her head clear for the first time in however-long, Korra looked around. She seemed to be in a perfectly comfortable room, with a soft bed and everything. There were even cheerful blue rugs on the polished floor, soft curtains—also blue, though a deeper shade—hanging over some windows, and a fire crackling on the other side of the room. A faded purple dress was folded neatly beside the bed. Korra ignored it, and ran over to the door, tugging at the handle. Had she been rescued, or—

The door was locked. Korra wanted to scream and cry at the same time, and most of all, she just wanted to light everything on fire. But her bending was still gone. She pounded furiously on the wood, screaming alternately for someone to help her, and then for someone to face her in a proper fight. If anybody heard, they weren’t paying attention; no one came.

After her hands went numb, Korra retreated from the door. All right. This cozy little room was her prison. There had to be some weakness. She opened the curtains, and saw that the window was barred. Any remaining doubts about her situation here fled.

Outside, snow was piled heavily on the ground, almost up to the window itself— _perfect_ for waterbending, once she got it back—and flakes fell, fast and quick, through the air. Definitely not Republic City. She shut the curtains and looked around some more. She could see a note rolled up on a little table near her bed, and a smaller door near the bed, pushed a little ajar. Was it a trap?

She marched to this door, and slammed it open, revealing a—bathtub? A steaming bathtub, even. Girly stuff she couldn’t identify beyond “make-up maybe?” was scattered over the wide sink; Korra was forcefully reminded of the bathroom at the Sato mansion, even if this was much smaller. She avoided the powders and tentatively washed her hands, scraped from her various misadventures. She still smelled, though. Well, it _had_ been awhile—not that she was going to make herself smell good for Equalists, but how long was she going to be here, anyway?

She wandered back into the bedroom and opened the note.

_Korra, a bath has been prepared for you. Feel free to take advantage of it; you can change into the nearby clothes for now (your clothes will be properly laundered). You can expect meals at nine o’clock, two o’clock, and seven o’clock, precisely. You will also be chi-blocked at these times. For your own sake, I would advise strongly against any attempts at escape, or destruction of property. I have won some small concessions on your behalf from Amon, but they can be withdrawn for any reason._

There was no signature, but it didn’t need one. The brisk, formal, but faintly pleasant tone might as well have had _Taraka_ stamped all over it. Korra tossed the note into the fire, hands clenched. She was tempted to throw the rugs and curtains and bedding into the fire, as well, just to _show_ her, but—well— _she_ was the one who had to stay here. She sniffed at herself. And she did smell really bad.

She grabbed the purple dress and underthings folded beneath it, and stalked back into the bathroom. The bath was actually pretty nice. She scrubbed herself thoroughly, mind flitting from improbable to impossible escape plans, and did her best to fit inside the dress. It barely reached her ankles and was a little tight across the chest, but was otherwise comfortable enough, for a dress. She muttered to herself as she put her ponytails back, threw her clothes in the laundry bin someone (undoubtedly named Taraka) had thoughtfully provided, and marched back out.

Taraka was perched on the edge of the bed, restored to her usual prissy neatness, and tapping a long teal nail against the nightstand. Korra stopped in place.

“ _You,”_ she said, in tones of loathing.

“Good morning, Korra,” said Taraka, ignoring her. “I’m glad to see you took my advice. I’ll tell you right now that this room is part of a very secure house, which was built within a very secure compound. Rather more so than the one in which, I hear, you were raised. You can’t possibly escape, but your imprisonment need not be more unpleasant than necessary.”

“I hate you,” Korra snarled.

“Yes, yes. Frankly, I don’t like you all that much, either.” Taraka’s lips curled upward. “However, literally every single other member of the movement hates you considerably more than I do, so this is really the best possible situation for you.” Taraka glanced around. “Your comforts depend entirely on your behaviour, you understand? You may even be permitted some use of your bending in time.”

Korra didn’t hear more than half of this. With a cry of rage, she launched herself at the other woman, wanting nothing more than to break that smooth smile. She knew Taraka would bloodbend her, and she didn’t even care.

Instead, two water whips almost instantly coiled around her ankles, sending her stumbling to her knees.

“That was foolish,” Taraka said dispassionately, and caught the water, pouring it into a pouch at her waist. “For your sake, I won’t mention it to Amon. She doesn’t like people trying to hurt me—I’d bear that in mind if I were you.”

Korra staggered to her feet. “What’s _wrong_ with you?” she demanded. “You’re a waterbender. What are you doing?”

“I don’t have to be a non-bender to recognize the harm caused by bending,” said Taraka. “I told you, Korra, that there’s a lot you don’t know about me. Or did you think I emerged from the womb as a bloodbender?”

What did that have to do with _anything?_ Korra stared at her, and Taraka just shook her head.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you, anyway. I’ll be back for lunch and chi-blocking.”

And that was how Korra’s days mostly went. Taraka came and went, acting very much as she had always done—her manner disgustingly smooth, her smiles small and artificial, except when they were smug. Three times a day, she rapidly blocked Korra’s chi-points, then handed over her meals. She provided anything that Korra asked for, and paid no attention to her screaming rages.

Korra tried to surprise her with sudden attacks, irresistibly tempted by the unlocked, and sometimes open, door that Taraka left behind her. It never worked. Taraka always caught her with waterbending—not bloodbending—and lectured her until Korra was bored as well as enraged. She desperately wanted to know what was happening in Republic City.

“I don’t know anything that’s going on!” she shouted one day, when Taraka made the mistake of observing that she seemed particularly irritable.

“Well, why didn’t you ask?” Taraka said. “Thankfully, I’ve managed to convince Amon that it’s not really practical to take the bending of everyone in the city except me.”

“And what makes you so special?”

Taraka opened her mouth, then shut it again. “Well,” she said, shrugging, “she likes me.”

“You really are just like her,” snarled Korra. “You’re both _total hypocrites._ ”

“Oh, yes,” Taraka said, laughing.

After awhile—Korra didn’t know how long, and she didn’t want to give Taraka the satisfaction of telling her—things seemed to change, slightly. Korra heard muffled noises from around her room, even occasional raised voices, though she couldn’t make out any distinct words. Taraka still blocked her chi and delivered meals with all the regularity of clockwork, but her other visits grew erratic. She seemed different, too—tired and strained, and once or twice, Korra _almost_ managed to break her wrists. Taraka had considerably less patience about that, too, not just tripping her with water, but freezing her hands or forcing her to evade shards of ice. That, somehow, felt like a victory of sorts, all the more because Taraka was clearly angry.

Korra tried to meditate, but she couldn’t seem to summon up the focus she’d had in the box. Once or twice she saw snippets of Yakone’s trial— _I already know about that, Aang_ , she thought irritably—and, oddly, a different man standing next to a woman in the purple dress Korra still wore off-and-on.

“Where’d you get it?” she asked once, when they were both in one of their better moods. “I mean, it obviously wasn’t yours.”

“My mother,” said Taraka, and left almost immediately thereafter. It was weird. Korra had never really thought of Taraka having a mother. But that was stupid, of course. Yakone couldn’t have had a baby without a woman involved somehow.

Ew.

Korra briefly wondered about the woman who’d worn it before. What sort of woman would marry a man like Yakone? Or did she even know? Wow, he must have been a _terrible_ husband.

Now and then, she got the impression that he hadn’t been much of a father, either. Beneath the surface calm and charm—well, what was left of it, these days—Taraka seemed sort of crazy. She disliked bending, but she used it all the time, but she was an Equalist, but she was a bloodbender, but she hated it …?

Then, one day, the Lieutenant was with her when she came with Korra’s food.

“Chi-block her,” Taraka said shortly.

The Lieutenant glared at her. “I don’t care _what_ you’ve done, I’m not taking orders from any bender.”

“Don’t chi-block her, then, and enjoy fighting the Avatar by yourself.” Taraka glanced over the platter she carried at Korra, and smiled. “Remember, Korra, that time you disarmed me and then tried to burn me alive?”

Korra eyed them suspiciously. “Yeah, when you just about _decapitated_ me.”

“I knew you’d duck.” Taraka’s smile, impossibly, grew even more artificially sweet as she glanced at the Lieutenant, who was glowering at both women. “What, are you waiting for me to say please?”

Korra could almost _feel_ her fire creeping back, warming her veins. Fire always came first. She tried not to look too obviously eager to burn them both. Then, the Lieutenant darted forward, and after a brief, painful tussle—he really liked that electrical stuff—she’d been blocked again. Korra kicked out blindly, and had the satisfaction of hearing him grunt.

“You’ve heard Amon’s orders,” Taraka said sharply.

The Lieutenant turned on his heel and stalked out. Taraka, still fussing with the exact placement of a bowl of seaweed-noodles, sighed and extended a hand to Korra.

“Don’t try it,” she said, and Korra accepted the help up—just this once, she assured herself. Taraka continued, “You shouldn’t provoke him. He has a mean streak.”

Korra sat down to her meal, chewing on her noodles. The times when she’d tried to fling it at Taraka’s head were long past; meals, Taraka had assured her, calmly waterbending the splatters off her clothes and hair, would not be replaced. She lived on a very strict allowance.

“And you don’t have a mean streak?”

“Well, no, I don’t think so,” said Taraka. “I have a temper, but that’s not at all the same thing. _You_ should know that, Korra.”

Korra shrugged and kept eating. In later weeks, though, she thought she could sort of see what the older woman meant. Taraka was almost always accompanied by another Equalist, usually the Lieutenant—Korra would have thought because Amon or someone had finally started to doubt the bender in their midst, if the other Equalists didn’t seem to more or less answer to Taraka. Apart from the Lieutenant, they didn’t even act as if they minded, and Korra wasn’t sure she wanted to know what Taraka had done had done to earn their trust. Well, aside of capturing and neutralizing the Avatar.

The Lieutenant, Korra quickly decided, was just as twisted as Taraka, and in a nastier way. Where Taraka just didn’t make _sense_ , the Lieutenant did. He hated benders, and Korra most of all, and he got his kicks out of taking out whatever wrongs he thought had been done to him on Korra. And she didn’t even know what they _were_. Taraka barely held him in check—he hated her, too, and Korra got the feeling that Taraka reciprocated it. Only their shared devotion to Amon seemed to keep them from each other’s throats.

“If you’d just stand still, he wouldn’t have any excuse,” Taraka often told her, methodically healing her burns. “I don’t like this, you know.”

“Yeah, me being electrocuted is _so hard_ for you,” muttered Korra, trying not to look grateful. Maybe it was some kind of game, to make Taraka seem like her friend or something. Though Taraka had never tried to get information from her or convince her to sympathize with the Equalists—maybe she was willing to wait, but Taraka honestly wasn’t all that patient. Maybe it was some other plot. “He doesn’t really have an excuse anyway.”

“Korra—”

“ _You’re_ the one that needs an excuse—an excuse to stop him,” Korra said triumphantly. “And you’ve never thought that just maybe you’re on the wrong side?”

Taraka just sighed.

Even the specter of Amon, however, couldn’t keep the tentative truce between Taraka and the Lieutenant from breaking eventually. Afterwards, Korra felt some satisfaction that it was sort of her fault. She’d fought back hard, harder than she ever had with Taraka, dodging one of the Lieutenant’s strikes and managing to punch him in the gut, while Taraka ignored them both. Korra had expected he’d be particularly awful in return, but not just how bad the white-hot pain would be—she couldn’t think or see or _anything_ , everything burned, especially her chest, she was shouting and crying, and then it was over, as fast as it had started.

“Are you insane?” Taraka screamed.

Korra, lying dazed on the floor, just managed to open her eyes. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Then her vision resolved, and she saw the Lieutenant, still barely a foot away from her, his arms contorted in front of him, his hands empty.

“Do you have any _idea_ what will happen if she dies?”

The door cracked open. Korra, exhausted, just closed her eyes. Then they flew open again at the sound of a familiar voice:

“If who dies?”

Korra hadn’t heard Amon speak for—weeks? Months? A long time, anyway, but she would never forget that voice. She just stared, horrified, at the white mask, shadowed beneath its— _her_ , _her—_ hood.Taraka dropped her arms.

“The Avatar put up more resistance than usual,” the Lieutenant said, wheeling to face the woman now closing the door behind her. The mask, and the body attached, turned towards Taraka.

“Is this true?”

“Yes,” said Taraka reluctantly, “but N—but he nearly killed her! I never had this sort of trouble with her.”

Korra was irresistibly reminded of all the times Jinora and Ikki had brought their quarrels to her. She would have laughed, if she’d had the breath. Really, though, why _was_ the Lieutenant handling this part of it now? Taraka had been better, honestly.

The shapes on Amon’s mask were indistinct. Korra could barely separate Amon’s grey clothes from the Lieutenant’s, and her head ached. She closed her eyes, letting darkness take her.

When Korra woke up, she knew she wasn’t alone, even before she opened her eyes and saw Taraka sitting next to a very unfamiliar, very attractive woman—in an old-enough-to-be-Korra’s-mother sort of way—in grey. An Equalist. Okay, not so attractive as all that. But she _did_ look as distinctly Water Tribe as Taraka herself, or Korra, though her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, like Asami’s. The fingers of one hand were pressed against her temple.

“You promised,” Taraka was saying wildly. “You promised you wouldn’t make me, except when there was no other way.”

“There _is_ no other way—” It was Amon’s voice, Amon’s voice coming out of _that face._ It was so far from disfigured that Korra’s terror was briefly replaced by sheer astonishment. “Ah. I believe the Avatar has rejoined us, Taraka.”

Korra, sitting up, was torn between attacking one or both of them, or backing away as far as she could. Her chest gave a twinge, and she settled for the latter.

“You’re a liar,” she said.

Amon’s eyes, the same light blue as Taraka’s, blinked.

“Your mask,” Taraka said tiredly.

“Oh, yes. Well, you are certainly free to pass any wild stories to your guards, Avatar. I am sure they will have no hesitation about believing a desperate prisoner,” said Amon. Korra wasn’t sure if she were more or less terrifying with a real face. She didn’t look inhuman any more. She looked quite a bit like Taraka, actually, like a _normal person_. Not that Taraka was normal, but she was definitely human—probably the most human person Korra had seen in the weeks-months she’d been here.

It was worse, she decided.

“You better heal her again,” said Amon, and Korra reluctantly allowed Taraka to approach with glowing hands, and rest them against her aching chest. Taraka’s sharp eyebrows drew downwards.

“There’s still damage,” she said, her low voice going almost shrill. “I’d say the functionality is reduced by at least twenty-five percent.”

“Oh, very well.” Amon moved forward, and Korra pressed further back.

“You can’t—don’t make me fight you, I _will—_ ”

Both women stared at her, matching perplexity in their matching eyes.

“Korra, nobody’s going to take your bending—at the moment,” said Taraka. “Your heart was damaged yesterday; I’ve been healing you for hours. I told you not to provoke him.”

Korra scarcely heard anything beyond _nobody’s going to take your bending_. She eyed Amon, her heart pounding in her throat. It was one thing to trust Taraka to keep the Lieutenant at bay (well, sort of), but Amon—Amon was the one with all the power, wasn’t she? If she decided she wanted to take Korra’s bending _now_ , would Taraka do anything to stop her? No, she wouldn’t.

Amon was lowering her hands into a wide, flat bowl of water on the nightstand. A ripple of confusion disturbed Korra’s panic—until Amon lifted her hands from the bowl. They were encased in glowing water.

“Wha—” Amon was near enough that Korra was looking directly into her face. She could make out every single one of her sharp, pretty features, even see the faint lines around her eyes and between her brows. Korra couldn’t back away any further without going through the wall. She didn’t have the energy to break free. She couldn’t do anything but sit there while Amon … healed her?

She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers digging into her palms, and then there was another brush of unfamiliar hands against the bare skin of her chest—she had only her wrappings on. The pain in her chest eased a little, not much. She wasn’t really surprised. Amon was _touching her_ _._

“Calm her down,” Amon said shortly, and the pressure of her hands vanished. Taraka’s more familiar touch diminished to a hint of soothing coolness.

“Korra, look at me.”

Korra opened her eyes. Taraka was perched next to her, her eyes earnest and kind. When had she become kind?

Taraka placed one hand over Korra’s. “Your heart took some serious damage. You’re young, but you might never be as strong as you were again if we don’t manage to heal it. I can’t do it on my own, and we can’t exactly send for healers. Do you understand?”

Korra’s wide eyes went from Taraka’s face to Amon’s, half-turned away. She didn’t look threatening, just annoyed.

“You’re a waterbender,” she said accusingly.

Taraka gave a long-suffering sigh. “She says that a lot. Korra. Are you listening to me?”

Korra jerked her gaze back to Taraka’s face. “Yeah. My heart. You need another waterbender. Like _her_.”

“Yes,” Taraka said, “but it’s very difficult while your heartbeat is so accelerated. We need to slow it down, and I’d rather not use bloodbending to do it. Here, don’t look at Amon, just spread out your hands.” She uncurled Korra’s fingers, and stopped them, one time, then two, then three, from pressing back into her fingers. Korra tried to think of anything except Amon’s silent presence.

She stared down at her flat hands, lightly covered by one of Taraka’s. Taraka had nice hands, she told herself. She could think about that. Nice like Asami’s, soft and elegant and pretty. Not weak, though. She didn’t have Korra’s muscles, but there was a wiry sort of strength to her—like Asami again. She’d trimmed the long, almost dagger-like nails she’d had on the Council, though they were still painted: a deep midnight-blue, this time. She must wear gloves for her Equalist business. And different clothes, even if it was hard to imagine her in anything but blue.

“There you are,” said Taraka, lifting the hand to brush it against Korra’s cheek. “You’ve been very brave, Korra. I’m sure it’s hard for you to believe, but I know how hard this must be for you.”

Korra looked at her. “Your dad?”

“No doubt you can imagine what sort of father Yakone made,” Taraka said, her voice brisk again. There was a movement in the corner of Korra’s eye that she tried to ignore. “There, all back to normal. But you must stay calm. Breathe slowly, all right? We’re going to need more water, Nataka.”

“Is that her real name?” Korra said, trying to ignore the grey figure moving around in her peripheral vision. She focused, desperately, on Taraka’s face.

“Yes.”

“So she _is_ Water Tribe.”

Amon, if she heard over the water splashing in the bathroom, paid no attention to them.

“You’re getting anxious again, Korra. Yes, she is. She’s from the Northern Water Tribe, just like me.”

Korra took a deep breath. “Your names rhyme. That’s … cute.”

Taraka laughed. “I’m sure that’s exactly what you think of it. We’re from the same village.” Amon’s tread drew closer, and Korra focused again on keeping her breaths slow. In, out, in, out. Amon or no Amon, she’d never get out of here if her heart didn’t work right.

“Good girl,” said Taraka softly.

She _was_ nice, in her creepy way.

#

Korra slept for almost a day after her healing, and for once, she didn’t have any nightmares. She’d just bathed, dressed, and settled into her usual fierce meditation, however, when a lone Equalist came through the door. Not the Lieutenant, thankfully—or Amon—or—

“Where’s Taraka?” she demanded.

The Equalist didn’t reply, instead blocking her chi-points quickly and efficiently. For once, Korra put up no protest, just winced a little. Panic was rising in her gut. Taraka wasn’t her friend or anything, but she was familiar, and she’d stood between Korra and all these people who hated her just because of how she’d been born, and she’d healed her and things. Korra wasn’t about to play nice with her, but she didn’t want anything bad to happen to her, either.

Except, she reminded herself, getting caught by the police and thrown in jail and—somehow—kept from escaping. The Equalists would be much worse off without their pet bloodbender, wouldn’t they? But _Korra_ would be worse off without her, too.

Her head ached. “Taraka,” she repeated. “Where is she?”

The Equalist gave her an odd look. “Baby-sitting you isn’t her only job,” she said, and put out a large bowl filled with—well, Korra’s usual Water Tribe fare, all thrown together. “Here’s your dinner. Someone will be back in twenty minutes to pick it up.” She stalked out.

Korra had never thought of herself as prissy, but she couldn’t help wrinkling her nose. Taraka always set everything out right. Okay, and then some, because Asami was a tomboy next to her. Was this some sort of plot? Did they _want_ her to miss Taraka?

Korra remembered Amon’s other schemes—the rally where she’d taken the bending of those criminals, the fight with Hiroshi Sato and his giant mechas, the zeppelin-aided attack on the pro-bending ring. Mixing the Avatar’s food the wrong way didn’t really seem her style. It could be someone else, of course, but … not likely. It wasn’t a big deal, after all.

Korra poked disconsolately at a chunk of prune-soaked, noodle-wrapped deermoose meat. She had to keep up her strength, she reminded herself, especially after she’d been hurt so badly. She forced herself to eat the entire bowl.

For the next week, Korra didn’t see anyone except when it came time for meals and chi-blocking. It was always a different person, or pair of people, and the first one was the most talkative of the lot. Nobody would tell her anything—they wouldn’t even answer when she said, half-jokingly, “Taraka’s not dead, is she?”—and, of course, there were none of the little distractions that Taraka brought with her. Korra had absolutely nothing to do except keep herself in shape as well as she could, and meditate. She knew it would probably be terrible if something _did_ happen, but she thought she might go mad if it didn’t.

Meditation, of course, went badly even with nothing else to do. Most often, she neither felt nor saw anything else, just itched miserably. A few times, she saw some part of the trial again, and the the strange man with the woman in purple. She figured the woman was Taraka’s mother—the man might be a younger Yakone, but Korra had definitely heard Tenzin ranting about Taraka pretending to know all about his father’s fight with Yakone when she hadn’t even been born until years later. Maybe Yakone had been married a long time before he had any kids, but it seemed weird. And once, she saw the purple lady and maybe-Yakone smiling down on two little girls playing in the snow.

The younger, her small face already framed by two fat, bunched cords of hair and little hair-loops, was unmistakably a tiny, strangely adorable Taraka. Her playmate, however, was a stranger—a stranger who happened to be the spitting image of Korra at the same age, down to the ponytails. It took Korra herself a moment to realize that the other girl _wasn’t_ her, or some time-travelling twin; the childish features were just a bit sharper, the eyes a clear light blue instead of Korra’s blue-green.

Well, whoever she was, that was definitely _after_ Taraka was born, so it still didn’t make sense. _What are you trying to tell me, Aang?_ she wondered, and felt an odd sense of—solitude, almost. Korra sighed. Another thing that didn’t make any sense.

Soon enough, of course, Korra’s new, maddeningly dull schedule took an unwelcome turn. A week and a half after Taraka’s quasi-disappearance, she came out of another fruitless meditation to find Amon watching her. Korra scrambled up and backwards, into a strong earthbending stance, forcing her breath to stay regular and trying to ignore the sweat breaking out on her skin.

Amon merely lifted her eyebrows. “Avatar. How many times must I tell you that I’m saving you for last? It may be years before you lose your bending.”

Korra didn’t trust this marginally less hateful version of her enemy, and stayed where she was. “What do you want?”

In answer, Amon strolled around the room, seeming to notice the furnishings for the first time. She brushed her fingers over the rich blue curtains, examined a tapestry illustrating the Northern Water Tribe’s victory over the Fire Nation—Taraka was fond of that story, as if the battle had been won by her tribe and not Korra’s previous life—then stopped by the fireplace.

“You are comfortable?” she said abruptly.

“What?” said Korra, wondering just how many noodles they’d dumped into the last stew.

Even in profile, Amon managed to look annoyed. “Apparently, it will surprise you to learn that no other prisoner enjoys accommodations as luxurious as yours. Do not fool yourself into believing that they’re due to your status. You owe every comfort you have to Taraka’s interference.”

If Korra had not wanted to give Taraka the satisfaction of doling out answers to her questions, she was only more reluctant to hand over any advantages to Amon. She hesitated, then let her hands drop to her sides.

“Where is she?”

Amon tapped her fingers on the mantle, just as Taraka had tapped the nightstand that first day here. Korra realized she’d probably hated Taraka more than Amon back then, and her throat went dry. Was she losing herself without even noticing? She didn’t _feel_ different.

“I understand that you prefer Taraka to your other wardens,” Amon said finally.

“Where is she?” Korra demanded again, biting back the question she really wanted to ask. _Is she okay? Will I see her again?_

Unlike the other Equalists, who told her it was none of her concern, or Taraka had more important matters to deal with, or snapped out _no questions_ , Amon just swept on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I also understand that you’ve been less troublesome lately.”

“What have you done to her?”

It might have been her imagination, but Korra thought Amon—Amon, the fearless, implacable menace—gave a small flinch. “Taraka will be returning tomorrow,” she said. “Understand, however, that the previous state of affairs _will not_ continue. I have lost all patience for your childish games.”

 _Fighting back isn’t a game,_ Korra wanted to say. She clenched her jaw.

“You are an adult woman, by the laws of Republic City and the standards of our people,” Amon went on. “From now on, you will be treated as one. If your current good behaviour does not continue—if Taraka leaves this room with one more bruise than she had when she entered it, with so much as a hair out of place, your circumstances will immediately change.”

Korra forced herself to laugh. “What, are you going to put me back in a cell if I pinch Taraka’s arm?”

Amon didn’t answer, but walked on, nearer to Korra—who couldn’t help the fear clawing at her throat—then stopped at a small round table, adorned by a piece of pottery. It was a large bowl, made of some vibrant, almost glowing, blue rock, and painted with barely visible images of Tui and La. It was the last of several pieces of pottery that Taraka had placed there. Korra had destroyed all the others in various rages, but they’d been on decent terms by the time Taraka brought the bowl. Amon lifted it in one hand, running her finger over the lip with another. What, was she looking for dust?

Korra, seized by what must have been a suicidal impulse, couldn’t help saying, “Taraka will be upset if you drop her bowl. She’s very spiritual.”

“Unlike you,” said Amon. A low blow, Korra thought, and a _weird_ one. Why should she care? “And believe me, a cell will be the least of your problems if you ever again lay a finger on Taraka. You know perfectly well that I am a waterbender.”

She set the bowl down, shifting it so that it was in exactly the position it had been when she picked it up, then turned to face Korra directly. Korra’s legs wanted to back her into the furthest corner of the room; she refused to let them.

“You have the power yourself, if none of the spirit,” Amon went on, with very evident, very un-Equalist-like, disapproval. “So you understand what I’m capable of, don’t you—Avatar?”

Korra caught her breath, eyes widening. Somehow, she really hadn’t thought what it meant that Amon was a waterbender; just that she was a liar and a hypocrite out for nothing more than power. Korra hadn’t considered what Amon could _do_. Taraka was one thing, bloodbending notwithstanding; she’d never more than mildly disliked Korra, and at least during her captivity, had never used bending except in self-defense. Amon, though, a power-hungry, hate-filled, violent, scheming waterbender who had never even needed her bending to outfight any bender she came across—

“Fine,” said Korra.

“ _Do you understand?”_ Amon’s low voice was intense, her eyes burning beneath lowered brows. She looked enraged, almost mad.

She really did care about Taraka, Korra realized, and remembered Taraka promising, weeks ago now, not to report Korra’s misbehaviour to Amon. _She doesn’t like people trying to hurt me._ Instinctively, Korra thought of the last time she’d seen Taraka, when Taraka and Amon had healed her. Taraka had called Amon by her real name, the name she must have been given as a baby in the Northern Water Tribe. Wait. More than that— _we’re from the same village_ , Taraka had said, and Korra’s mind was irresistibly drawn back to that strange vision she’d had, the two little girls playing in the snow. Taraka, and the other one—Amon?

Korra stared at the woman before her, trying to see some trace of that almost-Korra in her. Spirits, she _could_ see it—not the laughter, or even the worried expression on her face, but the face itself.

Amon and Taraka weren’t allies. They were _f_ _riends._ And not just any friends. Best friends, childhood playmates all grown up and … wrecking a city together?

“I get it,” Korra said quickly. “I don’t want to hurt Taraka. I don’t want you freezing my legs or slicing my hands off. I’ll be—” her jaw twitched— “nice to her.”

“See that you are,” said Amon.

The next day, she arrived well before breakfast-and-chi-blocking-time, still hooded and masked. Korra froze, then frowned. She wasn’t actually all that frightened—was she growing used to her, finally? Well, good. She was tired of being afraid.

“You said Taraka would be back today,” she said.

Amon closed the door behind her, locked it, then all but ripped the mask off her face. Korra stared at her. She was pale, as pale as Asami or Tenzin, with a livid red scar running diagonally across her face, from where her right eyebrow should have been to the left corner of her mouth, which was twisted upwards. And something about her chin seemed wrong—Nataka-Amon’s was pointier, wasn’t it?

Korra’s jaw dropped. “Taraka?”

“Hello, Korra,” said Taraka.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Korra demanded.

Taraka gave her soft laugh. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” she asked, sounding exactly like usual.

Korra would never have thought that stupid fake politeness could seem so nice. She gave a befuddled nod of her head, and Taraka swept off.

It was at least fifteen minutes until she returned. Korra spent the whole of it pacing impatiently, running her week’s worth of questions and complaints through her mind, wondering why on earth Taraka was impersonating Amon, and trying to decide what would be too dangerous to admit. She only halted when Taraka emerged into the main room. She was still in Amon’s Equalist gear, but her hair was parted, a little messily, in its usual style and hanging over her shoulders, the two ropes bound near her collarbones and ribs. She had her own face again, unscarred and slathered with make-up. That stuff in the bathroom was hers, apparently.

“I hear you’ve been more accommodating while I’ve been gone,” said Taraka, walking over to the table near the window, and seating herself in one of the (matching) chairs. She slanted Korra an amused look. “Should I be offended?”

Part of Korra wanted to smile back, or reassure her that no, everyone else was much worse. Furious with herself, she glowered at the soft Water Tribe rug under her feet.

“It’s not about you,” Korra said crossly. “I just don’t want to get reincarnated yet. Or healed by Amon again.”

“Well, that’s something all three of us can agree on,” said Taraka. “I heard, too, that you’ve been very … insistent about my return.”

Korra hesitated, then shrugged. “I’m bored. And they think noodles and prunes and meat go together.”

“Excuse me?”

“Really. They just mixed all the food up and gave it to me like that. I kept wondering if they were hoping I wouldn’t manage to gag it down or something.”

Taraka gave a delicate shudder. “Well, I think I can manage to put an end to that, at least, though I’m still rather busy.”

Korra, sprawling back on her bed, looked over at her. Even beneath her make-up, Taraka seemed exhausted, more than she’d ever been before. “What have you been doing, anyway? Nobody would tell me anything.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, either,” said Taraka, dropping her eyes. “Amon’s orders. I _can_ tell you how the revolution is going, though I don’t think you’ll enjoy any of the news I have.”

Korra just folded her arms, letting her fingers dig into her biceps. “I’d rather know than imagine.”

“It’s not—noisy,” said Taraka. “Some of the Equalists wanted open warfare, but Amon and I convinced them that a more gradual approach would make for a smoother transition. Two of the remaining Council members have lost their bending in their homes and resigned, one seems to have returned to the Earth Kingdom, and Tenzin is leading the opposition, not very effectively, though he’s certainly a worthy opponent in person.” She paused, then glanced away. “His wife and all four of the children have been evacuated to the Southern Water Tribe, if that’s any comfort to you.”

“At least they’re safe from you,” Korra retorted. Then— “Four?”

“Oh, yes, his wife _did_ eventually give birth, not long before the revolution began in earnest,” Taraka said. “A boy, I think.”

By her tone, she might have just been gossiping about her neighbours.

“You’re sure they escaped?”

“Very sure,” said Taraka, and now there was something almost wry in her voice. “I saw them fly away myself.”

Korra laughed, sitting up. “Couldn’t bloodbend Oogi, could you?”

“Not from that distance.” Taraka gave a little shrug. “Amon didn’t expect me to. She h—knew it’d be impossible, at least without a full moon.”

“So the moon _does_ affect you,” Korra said, trying to ignore the guilt churning through her. She was probably more comfortable than Tenzin and whatshername, the Fire Nation representative, and lots of other innocent people. _Happier too—_ she banished the thought, and hoped her voice had sounded triumphant. That was a good thing to know, wasn’t it?

“I’m a waterbender, Korra,” said Taraka, “as you are so fond of reminding me.”

“And what about everyone else? Beifong, my friends?”

“I’m not in a position to personally track down everyone you’ve ever associated with,” Taraka said. She looked even more strained. “Lin has certainly appeared, here and there—she’s not answering to any particular organization that we can tell, just causing trouble—”

 _Good for her!_ thought Korra.

“Asami Sato has been seen fighting alongside her, so perhaps your other friends are with her, as well.”

Korra couldn’t really imagine Asami leaving without Mako, or Mako without Bolin. The former thought didn’t really bother her. There were more important things than anybody’s love affairs going on; she still _cared_ about Mako, of course, but it just wasn’t the same any more. She didn’t know where she really was, but it all seemed very far away.

“What about Naga?” she demanded.

“I don’t know, Korra.” Taraka got to her feet. “I’ll be back shortly. Is there anything I can get you?”

Korra shook her head, deep in thought, and just watched as Taraka replaced the Amon-mask, tucked her hair inside the hood, squared her shoulders—she really was disturbingly convincing, standing like that—and walked out.

It wasn’t _good_ news, Korra decided, but it was better than nothing. Better than what she’d been taunting herself with. Pema and the kids were okay, Lin and Asami and probably Mako and Bolin and Pabu, Tenzin was out there doing things. Korra ignored Taraka’s contemptuous description of whatever he was up to _—_ Taraka had never had anything good to say about him, anyway.

Korra swung her legs off her bed, leaning her elbows on her thighs and letting her hands prop her head up. She should be out there, helping him, helping everyone, and instead she had to be grateful just to hear about what was going on. The worst part was that she _was_ grateful. She wanted to know and she was relieved that things weren’t quite as bad as she’d thought and—ugh, stupid Taraka and her stupid smiling face, anyway. Why couldn’t Korra just fly into the Avatar State like Aang always had? She’d been a prisoner for at _least_ a month, and okay, maybe she wasn’t in serious danger right now, but the Lieutenant could have killed her, and besides, she had a job as the Avatar to do. Wasn’t that important, too?

At the very least, why wouldn’t Aang _talk_ to her, instead of just sending pictures of the past? Why did it matter what Yakone had done, now that she knew Taraka was his daughter and a bloodbender? Why, even—surprising as it had been—did it matter that Amon and Taraka were old friends? That couldn’t help her, could it?

Taraka returned at the usual time, her arms full of boxes. She lowered them to the table.

“I’m not _that_ hungry,” said Korra.

“I should hope not!”

Taraka got to her feet, her smile fading, her friendly eyes turning sharp and suspicious. Korra just sighed and held her arms out. For the first time, it struck her that Taraka didn’t really have any more reason to trust Korra than Korra did Taraka. From Taraka’s point of view—her twisted, scheming, mad terrorist point of view—Korra was just … what? A valuable, if troublesome, prisoner? A pawn in her ongoing warfare with the Lieutenant? A pet who kept snapping at the hand that fed her?—Literally?

Depressingly, she thought that last might be the most likely. She wasn’t a child or an animal to be trained into compliance. But she could save her energy for the battles that counted. Besides, as long as they didn’t trust her outside this locked, barred room, she’d never escape. She had to trick them into weakening the security around her, and the only one who seemed likely to do that, ever, was Taraka.

Taraka blocked her almost painlessly—unlike the guards who’d supplanted her for that long week. Then without a word, she turned back and opened one of the smaller boxes, setting out delicious-smelling, _separate_ bowls. Korra fell to eating with gusto. She noticed Taraka’s instant response—a tired little smile—that quickly became a wider, brighter one.

“An improvement, I hope.”

“Mblrgh,” said Korra. She swallowed her mouthful of food. “Yes. Thanks. Hey, you look hungry. Do you want any?”

This time, Taraka’s eyes widened for a tiny instant before her usual expression reasserted itself.

“No, thank you.”

Korra shrugged. She went back to eating; Taraka opened one of the other boxes, taking out an intricately carved vase, which she placed on the windowsill. The vase was followed by a silk square—Taraka put that on the round table, underneath the Tui-and-La bowl. Korra watched in bemused silence as object after pointless object emerged out of the boxes, Taraka puttering around the room, her bright smile replaced by a look of intense concentration. Okay, the double spears weren’t pointless. Until she hung them over the fireplace. But they did look good.

“So,” Korra said, bored by the frenzy of interior decorating, “Amon’s from the Northern Water Tribe?”

Taraka paused halfway through hanging a shield above Korra’s bed. “Did I tell you that?”

“Mm-hmm, when you were healing me.” _Calming me down enough for her to help you fix my heart, actually._

“Oh, yes. I wasn’t sure what you’d remember. Yes, she is.”

“You said she was from your village,” Korra went on.

“Oh?”

Korra’s eyes narrowed at Taraka’s back. “She’s not that much older than you, is she? So I guess you’ve known each other for a long time.”

“Nearly all our lives,” said Taraka easily.

Well, that wasn’t as difficult as Korra had expected it would be. She watched as Taraka sprang down onto the floor, dusting her skirts and tunic off.

“That must have been hard,” she said, doing her best to sound innocently sympathetic.

Taraka stopped flicking imaginary dirt off her belt and stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, growing up around _Amon._ She’s—you know—Amon. Didn’t she scare you when you were a little girl?”

Taraka relaxed, walking over to retrieve a potted plant from the depths of her box. “No,” she said, setting the flower on Korra’s nightstand. “Back then, she was a child, too. Besides, I have been afraid of many things in my life, but never Nataka. And she wasn’t always—she was a sweet-natured girl, whether you believe it or not. She looked after me, protected me.” Taraka nudged the plant an inch or two back. “I’m not putting this in the window because it prefers partial sunlight.”

“Okay,” said Korra. “What’d she protect you from?”

She saw Taraka’s fingers tighten into a fist at her side, then deliberately straighten out, just like she’d straightened out Korra’s. “You’ll need to keep it watered. Don’t overdo it, though, the moonflower is easily drowned.”

Korra took a deep breath. “Was it Yakone?”

Taraka’s head turned, very slowly, towards her. Korra felt a jolt of—not quite fear, but, maybe, alarm. It was easy to forget that it was _Taraka_ , not Amon, who had captured her, that Taraka was both Amon’s creature, and dangerous in her own right. The woman who fussed over Korra’s food and fluttered about with her silly, pretty knick-knacks, who’d healed and soothed her, was the same woman who had sliced a stream of razor-edged water at her, viciously enough to cut through a desk and a bookshelf.

Taraka considered her for a moment. There was no wide smile on her face, no determined warmth, nothing to give away her thoughts. Amon had already reminded Korra of Taraka; now Taraka reminded her of Amon. Korra refused to look away.

“You seem very curious about Yakone,” Taraka said. “You know that he was a criminal and an unkind father. I’m not sure what you hope to gain from all the sordid little details. He died a long time ago.”

Korra hesitated, then gambled the rest of the way. “I don’t know either, but Aang seems to think it’s important.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing Taraka look puzzled. “Aang? Avatar Aang?”

“Roku guided him, he guides me,” Korra said. “That’s how I found out you were Yakone’s daughter.”

“How fascinating,” said Taraka, and now she even sounded like Amon. “Just when I think there’s nothing left in the world to surprise me, I find my family the subject of gossip between a teenage girl and a dead man. Perhaps you might ask Avatar Aang why he never felt as much interest when he was _alive._ ”

“Well,” said Korra sheepishly, “we don’t exactly talk. He just shows me things that have happened.”

Taraka turned on her heel and walked over to the table, her steps slow and measured. Then she sat down, across from Korra, and folded her hands in front of her, looking straight into Korra’s eyes. Her gaze was much more piercing from only a few feet away, and her slight smile much less convincing.

“And what, exactly,” she said softly, “has Avatar Aang showed you?”

Korra could just refuse to say. She was a prisoner here, they shouldn’t expect her to tell any of them anything. Korra didn’t know what Taraka would do if she _did_ refuse—laugh it off, change the subject, gently insist, slice daggers at her face. Each seemed perfectly likely. But wasn’t this what Aang meant her to do? If she did it right, anyway. It had to be important somehow.

“Yakone’s trial, a woman in that dress you gave me.” Korra shrugged. “And I saw you as a little girl, playing with another girl. I figured it had to be her.”

Taraka’s shoulders relaxed. She let her hands splay out on the table in front of her, and dropped her eyes to them. “Yes. We were always close.”

“Do you think I’m going to look like her when I’m your age?”

Taraka, to Korra’s relief, burst out laughing, her body already falling back into her usual charming-hostess posture, her face brightening. Maybe it was fake, but her laughter _sounded_ warm and companionable. Korra had missed that. She’d missed—oh, spirits, she really had missed Taraka. Taraka! Korra stared at her, fighting back panic as bad as any that seized her around Amon.

“Well, you’ve definitely seen her,” Taraka declared. She reached out to brush her fingers against one of Korra’s ponytails. “It’s quite the resemblance. I could scarcely believe my eyes when I first saw you.”

 _I—I—_ Goosebumps broke out on Korra’s arms. Part of her wanted to jerk her head back, safely out of the reach of Taraka’s soft fingers, and part—didn’t mind so much. She was still saying something, but somehow Korra didn’t catch it. Why was her lipstick so bright?

_Why am I paying attention to her lipstick? She’s talking about how much I remind her of Amon!_

Taraka dropped her hand.

“I don’t care to discuss Yakone,” she said, frowning down at her hands. Then she smiled at Korra. “I suppose, though—if it’s that important to you—well, I might have been a little dishonest in our first conversation here. I am really very fond of you, Korra, and there’s so little I can offer you.” She glanced around the room with a sigh. “So. No, Nataka didn’t protect me from him. But she tried.”

Korra couldn’t even clearly remember what she’d originally meant to ask. “She—failed?”

“She was a _child_.”

Korra’s mind went from Taraka’s red lipstick to imagining what she’d do if Mako and Bolin’s father were alive, and … Lightning-Bolt Zolt, or something. And if she were, what, seven? Korra frowned. She didn’t need to feel sorry for Amon _._ She didn’t even need to feel sorry for Taraka, she just … wanted to. But really, it had to be worse to be Yakone’s daughter herself, than Yakone’s daughter’s friend who couldn’t do anything.

“You don’t like bloodbending,” Korra blurted out. “I can tell. That’s what made me think—”

“You noticed that, did you?” She thought Taraka might give her another brilliant smile, or pat her hair again, something like that—was that creepy or not? Instead, Taraka dropped her hands to her lap and lowered her head, a few loose strands falling over her face, just as they had the night of Korra’s abduction. She seemed tired again, worn-down, almost sad. “No, I don’t like bloodbending.”

“But you weren’t born with it, were you? I mean, I know Aang took Yakone’s bending …”

“I was born with the power, my father always said.” Taraka didn’t look up, and Korra finally saw the expression she’d expected to find all along: guilt. _That_ was what she was guilty for? Not any of the (terrible!) choices she’d made, but the way she was made? “All our family have had it. But even for us, it must be taught and mastered. My father knew all the techniques, all the—he began instructing me when I was seven. I practiced on animals.” She rubbed her hands together, eyes still lowered. “I hated it even then. I could tell—I know it hurts my victims. I know I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Korra didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like she forgave it, certainly not as long as she was still kept prisoner, but … what sort of monster would force a seven-year-old girl to torture animals? When Korra was seven, she’d been—well, training too, but not like _that_ , Katara had been wonderful, and she saw her parents sometimes, and Tenzin had let her hold Jinora.

“I’m so sorry,” Taraka repeated, her head turned a little to the side, as if she were speaking to someone else. She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth. Was she going to cry?

As if on cue, the lock to the door clicked open, and Amon walked through. Korra had never been so relieved to see her. Of course, she’d never been relieved to see her, ever, but still. Amon had to have a better idea of how to handle her.

Amon closed and locked the door behind her, pulling off her mask.

“Taraka, I thought I might find you he—” She broke off, her eyes narrowing, then swivelled with a look of fury to Korra. “What have you done?”

“Nothing!” said Korra.

Taraka dropped her hand and smiled up at Amon. “It’s true. There’s no need for you to break out the daggers; we just got to talking about bloodbending.”

Amon’s face softened. Korra thought it might be one of the more disconcerting things she’d ever seen.

“That was foolish,” Amon said, walking up to stand beside her friend’s chair. Ignoring Korra, she laid her right hand on Taraka’s shoulder, the other hand reaching for Taraka’s nearest cord of hair. “There’s no reason for you to punish yourself with her.”

“I’m doing nothing of the kind,” said Taraka firmly. If she wanted to pull away, as Korra—sort of—had, she didn’t show it.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” she said, and closed her eyes. “I’m just—I’m tired, Nataka.”

Amon fiddled absently with the beaded tail, frowning down at her. Korra’s attention couldn’t seem to help narrowing in on the careless, almost possessive gesture, Amon’s thumb stroking over Taraka’s hair.

It was several moments before Amon replied. Her voice was gentler, or at least less bombastic, than Korra had ever heard it. “I know. But this will all be over soon—” Korra flinched— “and then, you won’t need to do anything but formulate policy. You’ll like that.”

Taraka’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Very probably.” She straightened, seeming to recover herself a little, and caught Korra’s puzzled eyes. She grimaced—had she forgotten that Korra was even there?—and blew some loose hair out of her eyes.

Ignoring Korra, Amon dropped Taraka’s tail and smoothed the wayward strands behind her ears. The gesture was more maternal than friendly—and yet, not really maternal at all. Korra had a cold, painful feeling in her stomach that seemed oddly familiar. “I won’t ask you again,” Amon told Taraka, letting her curled hand rest on her cheek. “You have better things to offer. I know you’re not weak; we just have to do it together.”

Taraka’s smile turned dazzling. “Thank you,” she said simply, and okay, what was going on—what _had_ gone on?—something to do with bloodbending?—and why was this conversation happening here? With Korra watching?

Then, Amon leaned down and pressed her mouth against Taraka’s. It lasted just a moment, and reminded Korra less of Asami and Mako’s kisses than Tenzin and Pema’s. Not sentimental, not overflowing with passion, but unmistakably _comfortable._

There was no cooing, no syrupy looks—as if Amon would ever—but that familiar-strange feeling in Korra’s stomach grew heavier. She felt just like she had when she watched Mako and Asami slobbering over each other in the practice room—she felt—

“You’re lovers,” she blurted out.

“Among other things,” said Taraka, rising gracefully to her feet. “Well, I think that’s enough drama until lunch at the least. Are you coming, Nataka?”

Amon’s back was turned to Korra; she seemed to be studying something in her hand that Korra couldn’t quite see. “I’ll catch up with you,” she told her—friend? lover?—whatever she was.

Korra was already on her feet. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but she couldn’t imagine Amon meant to chat about the weather. Taraka glanced between them, smiled, and left them alone, the traitor.

Korra, about to demand an explanation, broke off. The waterskin at Amon’s waist was missing. But she had something in her hands. Korra’s eyes widened. She dodged away just as a stream of water slashed at her, Amon’s body whirling around. Korra wasn’t quite fast enough; her cheek stung and burned.

Quite calmly, Amon returned the water to her waterskin. She replaced it on her belt.

“What the—” Korra lifted her hand to her cheek, then looked at it. Her fingers were smeared with blood. She glared at Amon.

“Don’t upset her again,” Amon said, and walked out.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Amorralok week on Tumblr. This Taraka is not [Edge of Darkness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/544777/chapters/969296) Taraka - or rather, she's the AU version of that Taraka, if Noatak had also been a girl. Here, Yakone was sufficiently terrible to daughters, and the sisters had sufficient solidarity with each other, that they were driven to escape sometime before the breaking point of canon/EOD. There was never any separation and they've been working together the whole time, and for years before that.


End file.
